


daytime through the brick

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Category: Hockey RPF, Shawn Mendes (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Fans, Pop Star AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: Mitch used to be a kid with a YouTube channel, and then he became a pretty successful musician somewhere along the way. He should probably be used to living out his wildest fantasies.





	daytime through the brick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firedoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firedoor/gifts).



> IF YOU FOUND THIS THROUGH GOOGLING, KNOW ANYONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, OR ARE MENTIONED YOURSELF: please, please click away. This is a work of fiction and nothing written in this story is true. Any accurate information used in this story is publicly available information about public figures, the rest is made up, 100%.
> 
> tots came up with A REALLY GREAT IDEA and i wrote some words for it. everyone in my life, myself included, seems to be losing their minds over how cute shawn mendes is. i really want to be his friend??? so i channeled those feelings into mitch/auston fic, naturally. 
> 
> thanks to ash and ali for reading this over, and obviously thanks to tots, the best human/potato in the world.

The thing about Shawn Mendes is: he  _ sucks  _ at hockey. 

Mitch isn’t trying to be mean. Mitch, in general, is never trying to be mean, and he’s especially never trying to be mean about Shawn. Shawn’s one of his closest friends, and literally the sweetest fucking person in the entire goddamn universe, and Mitch doesn’t think he could find a mean thing to say about him if he tried, but the fact is— 

He’s terrible at hockey. 

“I’m not  _ awful,”  _ Shawn says. “I used to be awful. I’m alright now.” 

“You’ve got decent feet,” Mitch says, and then he passes Shawn the puck, who weakly wrists it wide of the net. 

Neither of them is particularly surprised.

“Whatever,” Shawn says, brushing it off. “I’m not known for my shot. I’m a playmaker.” 

“You’re a skater who can keep a puck on his stick,” Mitch says, rolling his eyes, and then he skates over and grabs the puck, bouncing it on his stick as he skates back to Shawn. 

“Show-off,” Shawn says, grinning. 

Mitch just shrugs, smiles, then bats the puck into the net. 

“Okay, come on, that’s not even hockey, it’s baseball,” Shawn protests. 

“Listen, they say get pucks to the net, I get pucks to the net,” Mitch says, putting his hands up, defensive. “It’s a good goal.” 

“No way,” Shawn says. “I’m challenging.” 

“Can’t challenge with no refs.” 

“Well, then,” Shawn says, skating up to Mitch until they’re toe-to-toe, like he’s trying to use the inch-and-a-half he has on Mitch to be intimidating, or something. “Guess we’re gonna settle this the old-fashioned way, eh?” 

“Oh, you wanna go?” Mitch says, gently shoving Shawn with the back of his hands, and then they’re both grinning and shaking off their gloves, sticks clattering to the ice as they grab the fabric of each other’s shirts. 

Mitch has every intention of putting Shawn in a headlock for a second before, like, messing up his hair and skating away, but to his surprise, Shawn strikes first, and, because he’s the worst, he tries to fucking tickle him. 

“Hey,” Mitch says, laughing against his will as he tries to bat Shawn’s hand away. “What the fuck—” 

“Gloves are off, anything can happen,” Shawn says, and a part of Mitch wonders what the refs would even do if NHL players started straight-up tickling each other on the ice. He’s pretty sure that you can’t give someone a roughing penalty for tickling, and he’s also pretty sure it would piss Gary Bettman off, so he decides that it would be a pretty good thing for hockey overall. 

“It’s fucking on, dude,” Mitch says, and he launches himself at Shawn to tickle back. A tickle fight is still a fight, he figures, and Mitch is pretty determined to win. 

It goes on like that for a few minutes, both of them giggling and shoving each other, dragging each other around the ice, and Mitch actually gets pretty close to having Shawn in that headlock before the sound of a door echoes loudly in the rink and interrupts them. 

“Hey, did you guys have this reserved?” a voice says, and it sounds almost familiar. 

Then, Mitch turns around, and he looks almost familiar, too. 

“Uh,” Mitch calls back, because the guy is too far away for Mitch to see who he is, and then he turns to Shawn. 

“Until 8, yeah,” Shawn calls to the guy, then starts to skate over to where he’s leaning over the boards. Mitch follows him, a little belatedly, and a part of him still doesn’t actually believe what he’s seeing, but as he gets closer, it’s— 

Yep. 

Definitely Auston Matthews. 

“It’s, like, 8:15,” Auston Matthews is saying, an edge of apology in his voice, but he looks between the two of them, recognition flashing on his face. “Sorry, didn’t mean—” 

“No worries, of course,” Shawn says, running a hand through his hair. “Guess we lost track of time.” 

“It happens,” Auston says, and then he eyes them hesitantly, like he’s not sure if they should address the elephant in the room that invariably appears when celebrities meet other celebrities and aren’t sure who has the right to be starstruck. 

Mitch isn’t nearly as famous as Shawn, so he bites the bullet and plays the fanboy. “Guess this is your turf, so we’ll clear out.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Mitch, by the way.” 

“Auston,” he says, and it’s a little hilarious to Mitch that Auston Matthews actually has to deal with the formality of introducing himself to someone else in the fucking Mastercard Centre. 

Auston Matthews’ hand, for the record, is very warm to the touch when you’ve been skating for two hours, and also, a little sweaty. 

Mitch will probably wash it again someday, but not until he absolutely has to. 

It’s a brief handshake, courteous, and Shawn gets the exact same treatment a few minutes later, which is even funnier, because he’s  _ Shawn Mendes,  _ and even if Mitch knows he’s just Shawn, most other people don’t, so it’s always kind of bizarre to see him interact with a stranger who isn’t a fan. 

“Nice to meet you,” Auston says, and Mitch figures that will be the end of it, so he skates to where their sticks and gloves lay discarded on the ice, Shawn following close behind as Auston Matthews takes a fucking warm-up lap on the same rink that Mitch is currently on. 

He watches Auston skate for a few seconds, but the spell is broken when Shawn nudges him. 

“Think he’s mad?” he whispers. 

Mitch looks back over at Auston, then shrugs. “I dunno. He didn’t seem too worked up about it.” 

“He was kind of… cold?” 

Mitch snorts, because ice, and Shawn gives him a disapproving frown that mostly just looks like a pout. 

“I’m serious,” Shawn says. “I feel bad.” 

“Dude, relax, that’s just his face,” Mitch says, because he knows exactly where Shawn’s coming from, but he’s also watched many, many, many Auston Matthews interviews, and knows that that’s just… how he is. Not super expressive, even when he’s excited. It’s sort of like he doesn’t think anyone else is entitled to know what he’s feeling, and, like, Mitch doesn’t necessarily feel the same way, but he can understand it. Mitch broadcasts some emotions louder than others to cover up the stuff he wants to keep private. Auston just keeps it all locked up until he doesn’t, and a small smile or angry soundbyte slips out, always controlled, always intentional. 

Auston thinks a lot when he talks, Mitch has noticed, and that probably means that Mitch spends too much time watching his interviews, but whatever. He’s allowed to have hobbies. Hockey is a hobby, and the Leafs are a hobby, and if Auston Matthews’ face happens to be a big part of that, it’s only natural that Mitch would understand it in a very nuanced, in-depth way.

“I think we should apologize,” Shawn says. 

“Do what you want.” 

“You don’t think it’s annoying?” 

In lieu of an answer, Mitch fixes Shawn with a look. 

“Come with me,” Shawn says, slipping his gloves back on, and Mitch hesitates as he looks over Shawn’s shoulder to where Auston is gathering up pucks. He’s wearing a practice jersey, full pads that make him look that much bigger, but it’s the idea of an NHL player dressed to play hockey that intimidates Mitch more than the size. 

Not that Mitch is intimidated, but, just— he’s a Toronto kid, and the Leafs are his team, and Auston Matthews is Mitch’s favorite player. He’s also the entire fucking city’s favorite player, but still. Mitch isn’t big on meeting his idols as a rule. 

Then again, if Auston’s a jerk to Shawn, Mitch will probably have to beat him up for real, so. 

“Yeah, alright,” MItch says. 

As they skate over the blueline, Auston notices them, meeting them at center ice. He looks a little more relaxed now, Mitch thinks, like a few minutes of skating can melt the tension out of his skin. 

He also looks painfully good, but that’s beside the point. 

“Hi, we’re just headed out, and again, so sorry—”

“No, it’s really okay,” Auston says, sounding a little more genuine this time, instead of just completely neutral. “I’m only using half the ice, so.” 

“You can have all of it,” Shawn says.  

Auston shrugs. “Actually, I was gonna tell you guys you can probably stay.” 

Shawn’s eyes go way too wide at that, but when Mitch glances at Auston, his gaze is fixed on Mitch, for some reason. 

“Oh, shoot,” Shawn says, on the squeakier side of clean even for him. “I have a meeting, otherwise that’d be so cool.” 

“Yeah, I—” Mitch starts, but he cuts himself off when he realizes that he doesn’t actually have anywhere else to be. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Alright,” Auston says, his face carefully blank, but Mitch thinks he can see disappointment at the edges, if he looks hard enough.

He’s probably imagining it, though.

Shawn says his goodbyes, and Mitch echoes them, and it’s not until they’re stepping off the ice that Shawn turns to him and says, “What are you doing?”

“Uh, leaving?”

“Why?” Shawn says. “You don’t have anywhere to be, and Auston Matthews is here.” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“No buts,” Shawn says. “Join him. Live your fanboy dreams.” 

Mitch wants to protest, because he doesn’t like being told what to do, but he also is feeling weirdly indecisive right now, and Shawn’s pushing him in a direction he doesn’t actually mind at all. 

“Alright,” Mitch says. “I’ll catch you later, eh?”

“Sure thing,” Shawn says, and then they fist bump before Shawn walks away and Mitch turns around and goes back out on the ice. 

He’s nervous for maybe half a second, but then he locks eyes with Auston, and they share a nod, and if Mitch didn’t know better, he would swear he could see the corners of Auston’s mouth turn up before he went back to the puckhandling drill that’s probably going to haunt Mitch for the rest of his life. 

Auston Matthews is really fucking good at hockey. Mitch knows this, but it’s one thing to see it in the stands, and another thing to see when they’re literally the only two people in the room. 

But he doesn’t stare for too long, because he really does love skating, love shooting, love the puck on his stick and making it find the back of the net, and once he’s reassured himself several times that Auston isn’t looking at him, it’s pretty easy to just focus on the game, only mildly aware of the presence of another body on the ice, and if he doesn’t think too hard, he can pretend it’s just a split booking with a stranger and not a chance encounter with an NHL player.  

It’s weird, skating on their different parts of the rink, going in their own contained circles like they’re in two separate worlds, and that’s why Mitch is surprised when it’s Auston who comes into his zone, breaking the tension that Mitch had thought was one-sided. 

He chews on his lip for a second, and Mitch stares pretty shamelessly at his face, because he’s so used to Auston being on his computer screen that he forgets that there’s a physical person in front of him, one he can’t just gape at like an idiot. 

“Do you maybe wanna…” Auston pauses, like he’s nervous, except that makes no fucking sense. “Do you wanna help me work one timers?” 

Mitch blinks. “Me?” 

“Yeah,” Auston says, eyes planted firmly on his feet. 

MItch would very much like time travel to be a possibility, in this moment, for a few reasons. First, he’d go back a few seconds to make sure he heard that right, and second, he’d tell his 10-year-old self that not only do the Leafs get the first overall pick, and not only does that pick turn out to be outstanding, but also, that pick invites him to practice one timers at the Leafs practice arena, and also that pick has this really great blush that make Mitch feel a little like he’s about to fall over just from standing still on the ice. 

Maybe he’d leave out that last part, but the rest of it? This is the shit his  _ dreams  _ had dreams about. 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Mitch blurts out, and he’s kind of embarrassed, except then Auston looks up and gives Mitch this small smile, reserved and open at once, gentle, breathless, light, heavy,  _ happy.  _

It’s not Auston Matthews the Leaf, it’s Auston Matthews the person, and he’s just a guy, a few months younger than Mitch, a stranger who Mitch bumped into at an ice rink once. 

Based on that smile, Mitch thinks Auston Matthews the person is someone he wants to get to know, kind of a lot. 

 

Full disclosure: the first time Mitch tries to sauce a puck to Auston Matthews, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done with a hockey stick. 

Or, okay, it’s a shitty pass that goes nowhere near Auston, because Mitch is shaking from the whole thing where this is probably the most ridiculous and exciting thing that could ever happen to him, and he’s including the time Bon Jovi was quoted saying he was a “big fan” of him in a magazine. 

Like. Mitch used to be a kid with a YouTube channel, and then he became a pretty successful musician somewhere along the way, and he knows he should be used to living out his wildest fantasies by now, but he figures that’s something you can never get used to. It’s not like hearing your music on the radio can really prepare you for impromptu hockey with an NHL player.

“I am so sorry,” he says, as the puck travels in a direction no one could have anticipated. “That never happens.” 

“I’m sure,” Auston says, and then he gives Mitch a small smile. “Pucks have a mind of their own, sometimes.” 

“Yeah,” Mitch says, kind of nonsensical, and then he grabs another puck and dribbles it around his feet for a second, just to remind himself that he does, in fact, know how these things work. “Alright, this one’s gonna go tape-to-tape, promise.” 

Auston taps his stick on the ice, and Mitch actually manages to get it there this time, though it’s a pretty soft pass, and Auston doesn’t bother to redirect it into the net, just passes it back to Mitch and wordlessly sets up for another one. 

This time, Mitch actually manages to give him a decent feed, and Auston finds the back of the net easily.

Evidently, third time’s a charm, if Auston’s pleased smile is anything to go by. 

After that, they fall into a rhythm, pass-hit-goal, pass-hit-goal. Occasionally it’s pass-hit-post, and sometimes it’s pass-hit-boards or a bad pass followed by profuse apologies, but the point is, it’s just hockey. It’s not particularly gripping conversation, but it’s not painfully quiet, either; they talk logistics, like they’re on even ground right now, which is kind of ridiculous and way cooler than Mitch could imagine. Auston Matthews has no reason to think Mitch has anything worth saying about hockey, but he listens all the same, and they even swap stories about minor hockey and stuff. 

“You’re from here, right?” Auston says, as they’re gathering pucks from the net and the corners. 

Mitch nods. “Thornhill, yeah.” 

“What was that like?” 

“Growing up around here?” 

“Yeah,” Auston says. “I mean, everyone plays hockey here. That’s wild to me.” 

“Well, everywhere has something like that,” Mitch says. “I can’t imagine growing up without winter.” 

“I can’t imagine growing up with it,” Auston says, wrinkling his nose. “I actually moved around a lot, when I was a kid, but I always thought of home as somewhere… warm, you know?” 

Mitch doesn’t say that he’s well aware of the moving and traveling Auston did growing up, because it’s one thing to read it on Sportsnet, and another to hear it from Auston Matthews himself. “Besides the ice rink?” 

“That’s a different kind of home,” Auston says, and then he blushes. “Whatever, that’s— I dunno. Just— it’s interesting to me, is all.” 

MItch nods, and then, after a second, he says, “When it’s summer, it’s not easy to find ice— obviously, I mean, it’s… y’know. Hot.” He gulps. “Um. So I have this friend, who has this big road hockey tournament every year, and I only went a few times, but it’s— that’s what it was like growing up here, I guess.” 

“Road hockey in the summer?” Auston says. 

Mitch nods. “Or shooting pucks in the driveway, or the basement, or— yeah.” 

“So basically all hockey, all the time,” Auston says, and his face is doing this thing where it’s almost smiling, but he’s holding something back, Mitch can tell. “How’d you even find the time to— y’know.” He gestures at Mitch. “The whole music thing?” 

“My grades took a hit,” Mitch says, and the joke slips out easily enough, but he’s still reeling a little bit from the fact that Auston Matthews apparently  _ knows who he is. _

Which— it’s not like it’s totally out of the realm of possibility, but still, Mitch has seen the guy’s instagram. He’s into looking cool, and being cool, and is totally against smiling in photos, and it would make sense that he knows Shawn, because Shawn’s a legitimate superstar, but Mitch’s face isn’t plastered places the way Shawn’s is. Even with one big single and a moderate fanbase, Mitch doesn’t have to worry about paparazzi and shit. There’s the occasional odd grocery trip that ends up on Twitter, but that’s usually just Shawn’s superfans making commentary on the fact that Shawn Mendes’ friend is, like, leaving the house. Plenty of people who know his music can’t put a face to the voice, and Mitch is just fine with that, but apparently, Auston Matthews isn’t one of those people.

The next pass he feeds Auston is a little jerky, probably from the shock, and when Auston sends it toward the goal, it doesn’t find the back of the net, just goes wide and high, hitting a panel of plexiglass, which shatters into a million pieces. 

Mitch blinks, because a lot just happened in a very short amount of time. 

“Uh,” Auston says, just as stunned as Mitch. “I didn’t mean to do that.” 

“I figured,” Mitch says. 

They slowly make their way over to the mess, and, because it’s better than nothing, start to shovel the bits of glass with their sticks. What they should probably do is call someone to actually clean it up, but Mitch doesn’t want to break the bubble of privacy, doesn’t want to think about the world outside this room. 

“I used to watch your videos,” Auston says out of the blue. 

It takes Mitch a second to process that. “When?” 

“A while ago,” Auston says. “Back when I was in school.” 

“You don’t really strike me as the kind of guy who used to spend his time looking for, like, acoustic Justin Bieber covers, or whatever I was making back then.” 

Auston shakes his head. “It was before the music stuff, actually.” 

“You mean, those videos of me talking about just, like, random shit?” 

“It wasn’t random shit,” Auston says. “It was hockey.” 

Mitch is well aware that they were about hockey, but he tries not to think in detail about the things he screamed into a camera about when he was 14. “Those are so embarrassing.” 

“I liked them,” Auston says. “I mean, they were… they’re cute, I guess.” 

“I think most of them are gone now,” Mitch says. “But thanks, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Auston says, and then he gulps. “Well, anyway, it was pretty cool when you started to get famous, so…” His voice trails off. “I don’t really know where I was going with that, but. Yeah.” 

Mitch takes a second to process the whole conversation, and the way there’s the slightest hint of red on the top of Auston’s cheeks, and then it hits him. 

“So you’re a fan, eh?” Mitch says, going for teasing but missing by a mile, too full of awe and joy to come across as anything but.  

“Something like that,” Auston says, his face going ever-so-slightly redder as he looks down at the pile of broken glass, or maybe at his feet, and smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> origin story of this fic:
>
>> [11:31 AM, 6/6/2018] Tots: he has a YouTube channel that starts out as a hockey channel... kinda like Steve Dangle... but more... cute... he started it when he was 13... and then one-day when he's 15-16 he post a parody of a song... but like hockeyfied.... and ppl love it... up until then he has a modest following... 10-15k followers... be known in the Toronto area but not much outside of that... but surprise... mitchy has a lovely voice... and double surprise... plays guitar!! and everyone just kind sits up and takes notice... and he goes from having 15k followers to almost a million in under a month... he continues doing hockey vlogs... but everyone want him to sing...  
> [11:32 AM, 6/6/2018] Lotts: HOLY SHIT  
> 
> 
>   
> and then things sort of spiraled from there.
> 
> i'm lottswrites on tumblr! not everything i wrote goes on the archive so in the meantime have a little [marner/mendes ficlet](https://lottswrites.tumblr.com/post/174891058894/smile-shaped) i wrote


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